


Not Quite Our Song

by NineWheels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Cunnilingus, F/M, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4161156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineWheels/pseuds/NineWheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My girlfriend doesn't write often enough to want her own AO3, but she had a mighty need to write herself some quality Dean/Ellen porn, and asked me to post it on my account. I am happy to oblige.</p><p>Dean is helping Ellen close up one night, and one thing leads to another... "Another" in this case meaning steamy sex on and around the bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Our Song

This couldn’t keep happening. This had to stop.

It had all begun so innocently, too. With a shared look, and a shared chuckle.

REO Speedwagon. Who the hell had put that in the jukebox anyway? Ellen sure hadn’t.

That first time, Jo had played that track like it was on a mix tape she had made, batting her teenage cow eyes at Dean Winchester, and it was all Ellen could do to not laugh right out loud. She had paused in the doorway with a crate of whiskey, and the giggle she choked back went unnoticed by her daughter – but not by Dean. His eyes had caught Ellen’s in the mirror, and while his face didn’t change expression, his eyes had rolled ever so slightly. She had stifled another giggle, and then cleared her throat loudly, announcing her entrance into the room. With her mother on the scene, Jo had finished wiping down the jukebox in a hurry, and disappeared into the back, leaving the two of them alone.

 _This has to stop. I’m the worst mom ever. ___

They hadn’t mentioned the REO Speedwagon, nor Jo’s obvious crush. He had helped her unpack the case of whiskey, joining her back behind the bar. She hadn’t wanted to notice the way his shirt rode up when he stretched to reach the top shelves, but she did – and dammit, she was pretty sure he had noticed her notice. Space was limited behind the bar, and in an effort to get him back out front and out of reach, she had poured him a glass of Jameson, sliding it across to the customer side.

It hadn’t worked. He had come right up to her, close enough for her to feel his breath on her face, and he had reached across her for the tumbler, bringing him still closer. She had swallowed, and tried to tough her way out. “And just what do you think you’re doing, Dean Winchester?”

He had picked up the Jameson in his left hand, taken a sip. “What can I say, Ellen,” he said. He had dipped the forefinger of his right hand into the whiskey, and traced it over her lips - lips she was mortified to notice were trembling a little. “I can’t fight this feeling anymore.”

And that was how it had begun. Her daughter’s crush, a stupid song on the jukebox, and Dean’s repeated reassurance that he preferred “women of experience” – though she had always assumed he meant busty Asian hookers when he said that.

Ellen never sought it out, she was sure she didn’t… but, it _was_ her bar, and she _did_ have to stay later than anyone else, cleaning up, putting away, whatever… so when his big frame filled the doorway, her heart would start to pound, and she always meant stop him this time, because it wasn’t right, and because of her daughter, and she was old enough to be his mother, and what the hell were they doing anyway? But by the time she got through half of that in her head, he would be behind the bar with her, and his hands would be on her, and all would be lost.

This time was no different. And, dammit, he had put a quarter in the juke on his way across the room. No REO Speedwagon, of course – “She’s as sweet… as Tupelo honey…”

Van Morrison? What was she, a saint? “Get your ass back here, Winchester.”

His chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Yes ma’am.” He advanced, and, as she did every time he crossed the threshold of the bar, her private place, she shivered. She shifted slightly on the barstool she kept back there, and suddenly her jeans seemed tighter than before. Then he was standing there, hands on her thighs, sliding over the worn denim, and her hands crept up to clutch lightly at the fabric of his t-shirt. He bent his head to kiss her, and she made her one token protest – “We can’t, Dean. Jo could walk in any time.” His lips brushed over hers, softly at first.

“Sammie’s got her out back, cleaning weapons. He’s totally OCD about it.” He punctuated his words with teasing, feathery kisses. “Could… take… hours.”

“Are you telling me your brother knows?” Not her hands, no, clearly someone else’s, that roamed around to the back of his jeans, scraping her fingernails through the denim in a way she already knew he liked.

His hands crept up her back, to tangle in her hair, and he tugged it gently at the nape of her neck. “What’s a kid brother for, if he can’t wingman once in a while?”

Jesus Christ. “I’m never going to be able to look Sam in the face again.”

Those hands, those strong hands of his moved to her waist, and lifted her from the barstool as if she weighed nothing, and deposited her on the bar itself. “Don’t look at Sam, Ellen. Don’t look at Jo. Look at me.” Those green eyes, they were burning into her now, and all resistance finally failed as it always did, and they kissed like the world was ending.

She gasped once for air, threw caution to the winds, and her arms around his neck, fingers twining into his short, soft hair. His lips were everywhere, and when she could, she caught hold of his lower lip in her teeth, worrying it ever so gently. He growled his pleasure into her mouth, and she tasted his tongue, stroking it with her own. His hands were up on her face, but then they moved down, stroking her heaving bosom through the chambray of her shirt, and then all at once, yanking the shirt open. The snaps gave way at his tug, and her breasts in the lace bra that she had absolutely NOT put on this morning with the possibility of this in mind were in those hands. “Such gorgeous tits, Ellen, you know that? So fucking gorgeous.” He moaned this up against her breasts, nuzzling them, slipping the lace down to expose her nipples to his mouth and tongue.

She reveled in his touch, his words – it had been a VERY long time since someone had made her feel this giddy, stupid, and perfect – but now she reached her right hand down, slipped it past the waistband of his jeans and into his shorts, and squeezed the hot, throbbing flesh she found there. Her nails gently scraped the base, slid up further to pinch the tip, lather, rinse, repeat. The eyes he raised to her were almost stunned, amazed, and she smirked, and squeezed again – “Dean, anybody ever tell you that you run that mouth of yours too damn much?”

She knew he would take a remark like that as a challenge, and he extricated himself from her grip, placed her own hands on either side of her, and after seeming to kiss everything on his way down, proceeded to work the button and zip of her jeans, using just his teeth and tongue. His hands were on either side of her, and they pulled her jeans and panties off. She lifted her backside up off the bar for just a minute, to help him ease the waistband over her hips, and then his hands were underneath her, cupping the plump halves of her bottom, and his mouth feasted on what she had opened to him there. He perched on the barstool from which he had moved her, and with her up on the bar, the angle was just about perfect, and she wrapped her legs around his shoulders, grinding against his mouth, riding his beautiful baby face, and making little mewling sounds. He purred triumphantly into her, and she felt it all the way into her belly.

With her first climax, her legs clamped up around his ears, and a lesser man might have been rattled. She didn’t worry about it – she knew by now that Dean took such things as a compliment. She leaned back along the bar and relaxed a moment before round two (there was ALWAYS round two), but unfortunately, this angle gave her a perfect view of the door – that door through which her daughter could walk any minute, or be listening on the other side of, her daughter who carried a torch for this gravelly, whiskey-flavoured Adonis, a torch the likes of which could put the Statue of Liberty to shame. Dean, of course, noticed. He ALWAYS noticed. He unwrapped her legs from around his neck, and gently sat her up. “Hey Ellen,” and she could hear the smug on his face without looking, “how about if I stop talking so damn much, you stop worrying so damn much?”

She blushed – it felt like – everywhere. She opened her mouth to argue, to say all those reasonable, responsible, _maternal_ things she had said to both of them so many times, but before she could speak, his tongue was in her mouth, and she could taste herself on his lips, and it didn’t matter then – if it ever really even had. She closed her eyes and lost herself to the moment, but he noticed that, too – “Open your eyes, Ellen. Look at me.” He was lifting her up again – when had he opened his jeans? – “See me. See me seeing you.”

And he lowered her onto him, watching her eyes go wide at the initial penetration, then narrow slightly as she hooked her ankles around the barstool, pushing herself further onto him, bringing him in deeper, and impossibly hard. His hands continued to clasp her bottom, lifting her up and down with their rhythm. Her hands couldn’t find a place to settle, she wanted to touch him everywhere, she shoved her hands up underneath his shirt, drowning in his silky skin, and when she pulled the collar to one side so she could kiss his throat, her teeth got a bit more involved than she intended, and she knew he would have a mark to explain in the morning. He didn’t break rhythm, but he whispered into her ear, “You SURE you don’t want the kids to find out about this, Ellen?”

“Shut up and fuck me, Winchester.”

In one smooth, fluid motion, he lifted her off of him, and turned her around, her back against his chest. In front of them was the bar mirror, and she stared at herself, sweaty and disheveled, in his arms. His left arm held her around her middle, and his right hand reached around, fingers teasing the wetness between her thighs. Her breasts were half tumbled out of that lace bra, and she leaned forward a little, lifting her backside up just enough that she could feel him nudging at her there. He was still rock hard, she was still wet and slick. She whimpered a bit, and rocked back and forth, trying to coax him back inside. “Look at the mirror, Ellen,” came his whisper again. “Look at us. That’s what anyone would see if they walked in here right now, and I wouldn’t apologize for a goddamn thing.” And he thrust his cock back into her, as deep as he could go, all the while fingering her swollen clit with one hand, and squeezing and pinching the nipples of her breasts with the other.

And then it was happening, there was nothing she could do to stop or stifle it, and she didn’t want to, her insides were bursting with him and the blessed pleasure of him, and she could feel him getting close too, and right then, she didn’t give a good goddamn if both Sam and Jo walked in with a parade behind them. She came like she never had done before, even with him, and she clutched the bar railing, and she might have even cried his name out loud.

Afterwards, they stumbled back into their clothes, tidied up the bar, and chatted about Ash’s latest hack. They each drank a glass of Jameson, and a furtive glance out he window (she was sure he saw) proved that yes, Sam still had Jo ensconced in the fascinating world of weapon maintenance. She blushed again. “Remind me to give your brother a free drink some time.”

Chuckle. “Toldja Sammie was a decent wingman. He’d keep a secret forever if you asked him to.” Beat. “If you wanted that secret kept forever.”

The words hung in the air, revolving along with the ceiling fan. She looked over at the door. “I don’t know, Dean. Some secrets are best when kept.” And she felt him deflate just a little bit, before she turned to face him. “Then again, who knows? Maybe I can’t fight this feeling anymore either.”

She clicked off the light, and his grin lit up the darkness as they headed upstairs together.


End file.
